


anarchist | nihilist

by sacrisflorae



Series: the faces of despair [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Nakamoto Yuta, M/M, Mentions of Death, Nihilism, Smut, Top Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung, but yuta is depressive, philosophical talks sometimes, sad boyfriends, sad sex, this is just pure sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrisflorae/pseuds/sacrisflorae
Summary: once yuta said only the state doesn't make sense.now he says that nothing makes sense anymore.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Nakamoto Yuta
Series: the faces of despair [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136573
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	anarchist | nihilist

**Author's Note:**

> just reminding that my mother tongue isn't english and i don't have a beta.
> 
> idk, ok? i got this sad sex scene in my mind and i had to write it down. it is the most beautiful sex concept yet so underrated.
> 
> anyway, i present you the first face of despair: nihilism.

he stops for a bit before entering the dimly lit blue room and leans his head against the doorframe. across the room, the younger boy is sitting at the window, watching the starry night. yuta smiles, though he wants to cry — a familiar feeling for him. and, to be honest, nakamoto almost laughs. he almost laughs because it's funny how doyoung isn't afraid of falling from the twelfth floor to the rough and cold concrete ground.

not that the eldest has recurring thoughts about it.

yuta wants to sigh (life is tiring), but he refrains from disturbing the korean man. he only watches doyoung, taking notes of how beautiful his expressions look under the moonlight. the black strands sparkle, and the smooth skin look as pale as a corpse. the necklace around his neck, a simple silver cord, seems to keep the moonshine for itself. if it weren't for blood-red lips, the blonde would think that the boy at the window came from an entirely black and white world.

when he is satisfied with just admiring, the japanese man walks silently to the younger figure and leans his forearms at the window. doyoung notices his presence and smiles, but remains silent, soon returning to observe the stars. the immensity of the universe has always caught his attention. empty, dark and cold: three things that seem to attract the brunet. quietness, lack of words is frequent between the two young men and, honestly, it never bothered them. sometimes the noise of subjects, verbs, adjectives and pronouns are irritating, and only silence is the escape valve for exhausted minds.

it takes some minutes for yuta to say something. "do you know what doesn't make sense?"

the youngest doesn't even look in his direction. "the state?" kim laughs, breathily. not that doyoung dislikes or complains about it, but he's used to the monologues of his anarchist boyfriend that it becomes predictable.

but not this time. "another thing."

the korean raises his eyebrows and finally looks in the direction of the older man. "what then?"

at last, yuta sighs. the burden of negative feelings becoming lighter, however, is never null. "nothing makes sense."

"this is something i would say." from an early age, from early childhood, doyoung could consider himself a pessimist. he never had high hopes for his present, let alone his future. however, it was only in adolescence that he gave up giving any meaning or purpose to his life, becoming a nihilist. "i never thought you would move from anarchism to nihilism."

"perhaps it is one of the symptoms of depression." and he looks at the sky, staring, without even knowing it, at the constellation of his sign - not that he cares about this bullshit. probably the brightness of antares, a vibrant red, caught his eye amid so many white and blue stars. the point outside the curve, just like yuta. resplendent boy, full of vigour, who fell into the clutches of emptiness and disbelief. no one doubts that his supernova is approaching faster than the speed of light. "maybe it's a side effect of the drugs."

"or maybe it's your disenchantment with the world."

yuta grunts, shaking his head. "don't come at me with weber."

while the other laughs softly. "i could come with schopenhauer, but i don't think he will help you."

"it depends, what can schopenhauer tell me?"

doyoung stops and thinks for a moment. the japanese man looks at him, waiting for an answer. yuta knows the german philosopher considerably, as well as his discouragement. he also knows that the younger would never admit it out loud, but the germanic pessimism has a special place in his life. “ _illico post coitum cachinnus auditur diaboli_.”

"translate."

"in a current language?" yuta nods. "right after a fuck, the devil's laugh can be heard."

a smile appears on the thick lips. it's not about happiness; it's about sarcasm. "it's not like i hear that all day."

then silence. it lasts a few minutes, but it feels like a lot more. it's not uncomfortable because they are used to it. the blond then stands upright. he stops looking at the starry sky to look at the youngest. "get out of there."

"why?" doyoung asks without caring too much. “are you afraid that i will fall? you know pretty well that i couldn't care less.”

ah, nakamoto knows that... and he knows so much that if he just pushed the brunet out of the window, doyoung wouldn't be mad. he wouldn't even scream during the fall or when he hits the ground. "it's not this. just come down, please.” yuta insists and, the younger one obeys since arguing would get him nowhere.

putting his right leg into the apartment, doyoung jumps out of the window, and his bare feet land softly on the floor. he faces the foreigner, a few centimetres separating the bodies. "pleased?"

yuta doesn't respond, but his eyes shine. it is not the same brightness as when you see someone you love or the glow of desire. it is the glow that arises when the sadness within a being becomes so sensitive, when the emptiness becomes so dense, that despair is not able to express itself in the shadows, then it sparkles. his hands fly to his black hair, and their lips connect. doyoung is not surprised nor frightened (there is no time for that), but simply hugs the other's waist and deepens the kiss.

damn, and how good it is... it makes you melt completely and feel alive. the blond clings to the other's body as if it were the rope that pulled him out of this bottomless pit. his hands become anxious, and his lips, hungry. yuta has no other thought than how delicious doyoung's mouth is and that he would go through heaven and hell to have a single kiss from the korean man. if he could, nakamoto would make these kisses his only therapy.

but the air is needed, and the two need to part for a moment. "destroy me," yuta whispers, eyes still shut, lips close and breaths merging. his voice is weak, but the request is intense. “break me, shatter me into a million pieces. break me to such an extent that i will never be whole again.” he grips the black strands more tightly. "fuck me until my body matches my head."

a sneer appears on the red lips. it's not the first time that this scene has passed by doyoung's eyes. "your medication is over, and now you want to use me as a substitute?" the black-haired man has no qualms.

yuta grunts again. “i got more yesterday. now i just want you to fill that void inside me.” no pun intended, but it could have.

and the younger can do nothing but accept. both are used to this type of fuck. it is when sadness has become so intense that only sex can heal it. it is not because of desire, nor affection; it's for orgasm, for the discharge of dopamine and serotonin in the brain. one of doyoung's hands travels to his handsome face and strokes the cheekbone with his thumb. "sometimes i just can't understand you."

"i thought you were a nihilist." he rebates. " _nothing_ makes sense, doyoung."

"i thought you were just an anarchist." the other one smiles sarcastically. " _only the state_ doesn't make sense, yuta."

the blonde rolls his eyes and slowly pushes his boyfriend to the king-sized bed. the brunet falls, sitting on the pale sheets — someday they would harbour a lifeless body. "since you care so much about philosophies and political thoughts," yuta sits on his lap, one leg on either side of doyoung's body. “then fuck me like the state. fuck me until you cannot see any sense in the movement of your hips against mine and in my voice claiming your name.”

doyoung doesn't say a single word, only remains silent. his hands slowly roam the sculptural body as their eyes connect. no one with a sane mind would dare look into the eyes of the foreign for long. however, the younger isn't afraid nor hesitant, because he feels like looking at a mirror. it's like facing a dim room that is doubtlessly possessed, watching the abyss while waiting for an answer or merely admiring death. yuta's eyes are brown, but appear to be darker. and the brunet knows this darkness very well.

the korean doesn’t answer, just pulls the older for another kiss. yuta feels tears blossom out in his eyes, but he holds them as he can. not yet, the time is not now. a groan escapes his throat, and his whole body shivers when doyoung grabs his slim waist under his dark clothes. for sitting so long at the window, watching the stars, the younger's skin is cold. the japanese even imagines that this must be the feeling of kissing a corpse, but refrains himself from sharing that thought because he's sure that kim would scold him, saying that this is necrophilia. evaluating by the general sense of the word, necrophilia is when a living has sex with a dead, and the blond died years ago.

how do you name it when both are already dead?

kiss after kiss. even though their lungs cry out for air, their mouths continue to meet. they part for a few seconds, just enough to catch their breath and return to their previous activity. doyoung pulls the blond boy closer, connecting bodies, as he tries to warm himself with an almost extinguished flame. small gasps and moans can be heard, and they excite them even more. yuta clings to the youngest as he can, nails digging into his shoulders, overcoming the fabric barrier. his hip moving, rolling on doyoung's lap to get any friction.

it’s not love — others would say if they saw how they are now - it’s not lust. it’s despair.

and they are right.

yuta withdraws. it's as brief as the glow of well-being, but the korean man can appreciate the beauty of his boyfriend. even though it is cold outside, the blond blush visibly and his skin glistens, giving signs of sweat. the long white strands, which are slightly purple, fall out of order on his forehead and even cover the black eyes - saving the younger from greater terror. upon seeing the red and swollen lips, doyoung wants to kiss them again, even though he does nothing to fulfil his wish.

both breath so heavily, they can hear the air escaping from their lips. the older's hands travel to the hem of the shirt and quickly removes it from his body, throwing it somewhere in the room. yuta tries to bring the mouths together again and kiss the taller one, but the one retreats. "not in such a hurry." and doyoung unbuttons the shirt, as slow as watching the clock pointer.

yuta growls softly. he has no patience, no time to waste. it is as if he were drowning in a sea of anguish and had only a few seconds left before he lost consciousness. nakamoto never really enjoyed waiting for too long, but now the delay is critical.

before he becomes aware, his bareback collides against the mattress, and the younger pair of soft lips collide with his' again. yuta groans during the kiss and allows his hands to travel over the korean's shoulders and beyond. the nails creating winding paths, welts, lines that the japanese use to write his pleasure. the latter does not complain when the mouths move apart, and doyoung starts to kiss and suck on his jaw and neck.

"doyoung..." the japanese man murmurs, almost moaning, and closes his eyes. the beautiful lips against his skin are such an addictive drug. "so good..." he gasps again. "it makes me forget that i want to die..." yuta lets out a sigh as his blond hair dances over the sheet, forming a halo around his head. like this, nakamoto looks like an angel, even though he never came close to acting like one.

doyoung's lips continue to explore the pale skin. no other sound fills the room beside the wet sound of suction, gasps and small moans. slowly, yuta's bust takes on new colours; different shades of red, pink and purple in an abstract painting. doyoung subtly lifts his body, just enough to appreciate the piece of art he has before his eyes. he smiles, satisfied with the work, and bends down to let one last kiss, now in the older's mouth.

"sometimes i can't believe your beauty." he comments, rubbing the blond’s hip. “it doesn't even seem to be real. as beautiful as a work of art.” in fact, like this, on the threshold between sadness and pleasure, that's when yuta is most beautiful. swollen lips, a wholly bruised bust, messy hair and eyes on the verge of tears.

he smiles minimally. "so i can make you forget the suffering of existing, even if it's for a few seconds?" schopenhauer, again. reality is made up of anxieties because of craving, but art, being a copy of reality absent from desire, is the only salvation. although not for them.

"i said that you are as beautiful as a work of art — more so — not literally." the lips continue to wander over the soft skin, kissing and marking the torso as they can. doyoung holds one of the nipples between his teeth and plays with the reddish skin. yuta arches and shuts his eyes again. when kim gets tired of teasing both sides of nakamoto’s chest, he says: "you know that looking deep in your eyes is like facing death closely, becoming aware of suffering." doyoung moves in such a way, now he holds the japanese man under him — even if yuta wanted to (he doesn't), he couldn't escape. the black-haired man caresses the others' face delicately, removing the platinum and purple strands from his eyes. “you are beautiful, yuta. but what you have about beauty, you lack happiness.”

"why are we even together then?" the older one asks, afraid of the answer he would get. "if it doesn't make sense ..."

and doyoung laughs, then gently kissing his forehead to comfort his boyfriend. “ _touché, mon amour_ : nothing makes sense. but that doesn't stop us from doing things we like.”

"is that why you are not leaving?"

he nods. "and that's why we keep fucking." doyoung's gaze drops to the juicy lips. "the devil's laugh is nothing compared to the feeling of coming inside you."

finally, yuta smiles. a small fire of joy is born in his chest, and he pulls the brunet for another kiss. after all, it’s for these brief moments that they are together. and so ephemeral that, when parting their lips, the smile disappears from nakamoto's face, leaving room for everyday melancholy.

doyoung lifts his body, his long fingers trailing yuta's beautiful torso until they reach the waistband of his pants and quickly removes it, throwing it on the floor. he stops for a moment, just for a second, to admire the other's nudity and his beauty in the purest form that depression hasn't yet managed to steal. _you look so cool_ , he thinks, and keep it to himself. the brunet holds the other's thighs and starts to distribute small, soft kisses around the place. yuta gasps and closes his eyes to enjoy, to feel even more. the korean's lips against his skin make him shiver, melt, surrender without contest — and doyoung knows it.

the youngest continues his work without any hurry as if he had all the time in the world. doyoung kisses, bites and licks the warm surface and delights as if he tastes his favourite sweet. his hands massage the meat, and sometimes his fingers hold it in such a way that purple marks will remain as a souvenir for the next day.

minutes run until the man gets tired and extends three fingers to touch the plump red lips. yuta eagerly takes them, knowing what it is about. the mouth houses the phalanges, the tongue embraces and moistens them. so they can slide inside yuta without problems. "you are so beautiful, yuta..." doyoung whispers. he knows that the eldest cannot answer. “so beautiful, but in pieces. and no glue in this world can make you whole again. only time. and perhaps, when the time finally heals all your wounds, it will be too late. maybe you already died, killed yourself or asked to be killed…”

the korean removes his fingers from the older's mouth and takes them to his ass. between the bands, only one of the phalanges slides through the circle of reddish muscles. yuta doesn't squeak or mumble, too focused on his boyfriend's succinct monologue to care about the little annoyance. it's only when the second finger penetrates him, the scissor movement widening his hole, that the mouth produces a sound of discomfort.

after what seems like aeons of silence, nakamoto inquires, "would you kill me if i a-asked you?" he stutters when he feels the third finger inside him. yuta shuts his eyes even harder and holds on to the sheet.

the younger man sighs, working calmly with the phalanges to prepare the older one. kim is never in a hurry, which is why he completes the japanese so well. "i could." he admits it. and indeed, he could. doyoung was never a big fan of the morals prevailing in the society. “good and bad... moral laws... all the same shit. what keeps me from doing this is the police annoying me.” criminal investigation, escaping, living as a fugitive… the korean wouldn't take much longer in this cat and mouse game. he has no patience for that.

another groan escapes her pink lips. "you could hide my body or pretend you helped me with my suicide."

and doyoung simply laughs. "helping someone to commit suicide is also a crime, and i'm afraid i don't have enough patience to hide your body so that even the devil won't find it." a short break. "even because i think he already found it." his fingers keep stocking, maintaining a continuous rhythm and finally hit the older's prostate. yuta groans and arches his body, unable to cope with the sudden surge of pleasure. “if i were you, i wouldn't worry so much about waiting for death. i don't think we're going to be over thirty.”

"y-you wouldn't hesitate to kill me."

"and neither would you." doyoung replicates. “we are suicidal, and the math is simple: minus one life with minus another life equals more deaths. life is pure suffering.” he hits yuta's prostate one more time. the older man moans again so that the sound echoes through the room. "perhaps we don't kill ourselves because we are too much of a coward or because something holds us here."

“whatever..." yuta sighs and moves against doyoung's thin fingers. his hands ruffle the sheet, uncertain how to grab it, and his head hangs to one side. he pants and gasps through the beautiful mouth as the body arches and twitches in a strictly sexual way. the man doesn't say a single word, but the brunet knows that he's ready.

"fuck, doyoung..." he murmurs as nakamoto feels physically empty, his pink muscles clenching around nothing.

the tallest one laughs. "do you prefer my fingers or my cock?" yuta remains silent and rolls his eyes. "that's what i thought."

doyoung removes all the clothes left on his body while he glances at the foreign. the blue of the moonlight suits him, makes him a spiritual being, but bathed in sadness. lord of suicidal souls? who knows. lord of abandoned souls? for sure. the brunet smiles at his thoughts and returns to the pale, soft sheets. the large hands pump his phallus timidly, only until small gasps escape his mouth, and then they pull the other by the thighs, bringing yuta closer. condom? if they used it five times, it was a lot. they don't care about the consequences if dying is actually a profit.

the brunet grunts and closes his eyes. the first penetration always has that different feeling, especially if it is done at once. his lips soon split, letting out a gasp. the elder, despite the burning sensation, observes the man and his beautiful expressions. thus, dewy in sweat and in the bluish light of the night, the nihilist seems ethereally morbid, the spirit of the abyss. yuta doesn't even listen to what the other says, just nods and moans softly when feeling the first thrusts, still irregular.

it doesn't take long for them to gain intensity and start to follow a constant rhythm. the japanese's legs intertwine at the youngest's hip while his hands hold his slim waist. the short nails dig into the soft, warm flesh, and yuta briefly wonders whether the void pulls people into their dark confines with the same brutality. he chokes on his own groans just as he chokes on his own misery every day.

time runs down the clock, and the hips keep moving. weakened, with his mind already clouded by pleasure, yuta reaches the brunet and pulls him closer by the silver necklace. the heat of the bodies seems to increase the small flame of humanity within the japanese, the reason for staying alive. his body is like a zoroaster temple, it needs a fire to burn constantly inside it, or its structures must be destroyed. only doyoung knows that what was once a huge bonfire is now just a spark. the breaths merge into one and then the mouths. it’s not a delicate, nor loving kiss. it's made of grief, of the most primordial sorrow and woe that man has ever experienced. it’s a single shot that maybe (hopefully) hits their head.

they part, but the blond keeps doyoung close by his necklace. what if it broke? yuta couldn't care less. the red lips travel to the korean's ear just to sigh: "stronger."

and doyoung laughs, slowing down his hip. "masochist." he responds and leaves another hickey on the pale neck.

the korean uses his forearms to lean on the bed, one on either side of the light threads. that way, he can see the emptiness of the dark eyes. "do you think people drink beer because they like it or because they want to get drunk and forget about their problems?" doyoung understands what yuta means and speed up his movements. the eldest whines, his nails digging into the pale skin and creating red welts while drawing hisses from kim's pretty mouth.

tears and blood begin to flow, each from different bodies. iit hurts, and yuta can't say for sure what harms him — his existence or the massive cock stretching him. "fuck…" he murmurs and sighs. "fuck, doyoung, fuck ..." his arms, chaotically, wrap around the brunet. he wants (needs) the other close to him, protecting him, saving him, freeing him from his own disgraced head. only the nihilist could save the anarchist from the void that gradually consumes him until there’s nothing left.

the foreheads touch and the lips almost connect, sometimes lightly touching. they don't kiss, but they share the same breath and the same heat. when doyoung hits the older's prostate, the body under him arches as it can. a needy groan echoes through the cold, bluish room. thick tears run down the corners of his face before yuta whines: "more, please."

and the brunet cannot ignore such a request. doyoung moans and groans as the movement of the hips meeting provide so much pleasure. the black-haired man can't control himself and kisses red lips once more, biting them at the end of the kiss to elicit another broken moan from the older one.

it is so good, so pleasurable that yuta can feel normal. it’s as if all the weight on his back is gone and, for a mere moment, he feels complete. his hands leave doyoung's body and fall inert over the white sheet. soon his fingers would grab the bright tissue because nakamoto wouldn't take the feelings that overwhelm him like waves.

doyoung lifts his body and observes the mess that the eldest has become. if he were told that he has a deity on his bed, he would undoubtedly believe. and maybe, just maybe, doyoung really did. who knows if thanatos did not personify himself in the body of a young japanese man to fulfil his mission on earth? if myths made sense, the korean would love to believe that possibility. the pale skin in the moonlight, dewy with sweat and full of hickeys; lips as red as blood; the twisted face in an expression of pain and pleasure; and the blond hair, subtly purplish, around his head like a divine halo. perhaps yuta was the god of death, son of the night and the older brother of misery.

perhaps doyoung was a _daemon_ attracted to a god.

a long moan tears him out of his thoughts. yuta squirms beautifully below him. so close... almost... the lower belly produces that characteristic sensation that the orgasm is approaching. the japanese phalanxes are already white from grabbing the sheet with such force. realising the reactions of the smaller body, doyoung bends down and seals their lips. his hands sneakily travel to the other man’s and his fingers intertwine just above his head.

yuta cries, crystalline rivers running down his flushed cheeks as the sobs are swallowed by doyoung's mouth. never in his life would he think of proving such dissenting feelings at once. his lower abdomen tingles, announcing the peak of pleasure, while an invisible hand grabs his neck and doesn't allow yuta to breathe. in the same intensity that delight bathes his body in powerful waves, the emptiness in his chest expands uncontrollably. schopenhauer was wrong, the devil's laughter can be heard even before orgasm - but the eldest cannot reflect on that at this point.

the kiss cracks, mouths move apart, foreheads connect. "doyoung..." he murmurs through sobs - of pleasure? of sadness? yuta couldn't say. he only knows that he needs to cry, that he needs to take some of the weight off his body. "doyoung..." again. yuta tries to open his eyes, but it hurts so much that he gives up - he prefers to keep the emptiness to himself. "doyoung..." the name no longer makes sense (like all of his life), but the japanese continue to cry out to him as if it were the prayer that would free him from this hell that he was thrown. "doyoung ...!"

a loud groan echoes through the room, and the smaller body arches as it can. yuta gasps and his breathing becomes extremely short as the waves of orgasm struggle against the torrent of cosmic sadness. he gasps and moans smoothy as doyoung continues to shock their hips, looking for his very peak. "please.." he whispers under his breathlessness.

"just a little bit more." the other insists, followed by a grunt. "can you handle it, yuta?"

his eyes shine with tears, and his nose has a delicate red colour, even under the cold palette of aniseed lights and shadows. he nods minimally, without strength. yes. and doyoung keeps the brutal and deregulated thrusts. of course, yuta would take it; yuta would _always_ take it. it goes beyond their relationship, their fucks - it becomes a scar not on nakamoto's body, but on his soul.

yuta has always endured more than necessary. he always held on until he couldn't take it anymore and he shattered.

and not that it's the case now. the japanese likes to be used, to be degraded, to be thrown back and forth during sex. overstimulation is just one more on yuta's list of kinks. the detail is when it goes beyond fucking, and mixes with melancholy: they are scars that need to be considered because they cannot be erased.

then doyoung comes, a groan scratching the back of his throat, and permits himself to fall over the foreign body. his beautiful hands weaken and allow the japanese to break free. yuta doesn't care about the brunet's weight on him. he just hugs doyoung and closes his eyes while trying to regulate his breathing.

the minutes run down, drip slowly from the piercing pointers. doyoung leaves a kiss on nakamoto's stained neck before standing up to appreciate the man under him. his eyes are opaque with fatigue, but yuta's shine like the stars outside. the sadness is still there, sparkling, but now because of the tears that streamed down the beautiful face. the younger gently runs his thumb over the other's cheeks, picking up all the brine before the lips meet in a lazy kiss — so dull that the tongues are barely touching.

doyoung withdraws from the older one, a little bit of cum smearing the inside of his succulent thighs. yuta moans softly and barely cares about the dirt on the sheets. tiredness dominates his body, and they would certainly have time to clean up the mess later. the korean man lays by his side and starts to face the ceiling. whole minutes run like this: exhausted silhouettes, bruised, side by side, watching the cobalt shadows that the lights and objects outside the window creates.

contrary to normality, yuta was drained by such calm. the japanese weren't made of easy-to-navigate waters, but of brutal waves, and storms capable of destroying entire vessels. all sailors who try to explore them are doomed to drown. doyoung knows that. and he knows it so well that he called him pacific, a tribute to the ocean that appears to have pax as its patron goddess when in fact it is the most furious of waters. "what is our problem?" then yuta asks, not exactly for someone. "why are we like this?"

"disenchantment of your world." doyoung answer, not exactly for someone. "beliefs are gradually falling, the magic being replaced by rationality and fantasies plunging into the abyss."

the blond looks at his boyfriend. "and besides the weberian explanation?"

doyoung looks back at him. his orbs are black, dark and sharp. they are capable of tearing apart whoever gets in their way. in fact, they are mortal, but not in the same way as those of the anarchist — he seems to be missing something. the korean man has the audacity, energy that ignites and burns everything around him. his eyes are the owners of the blade that murdered the king. yuta, on the other hand, has a calmness watching over the abyssal sea of sadness. there's a struggle of good and evil within him, of not letting yourself sink when the thing you crave most is to drown. if the younger has the power that shatters, the blond has the despair that consumes.

"pessimism." he says, finally. "nihilism."

“after all,” yuta’s eyes turn pure pitch. "what the fuck is nihilism?"

the nihilist hesitates. the definition that the other wants cannot be found in old dusty books, with their intricate and complicated words. nor can it be found in the mouths of teachers, begging their students to understand the subject they want to teach. yuta likes pure, raw, naked things. in its most brutal form, capable of tearing unprepared minds. he wants the answer that only doyoung can give, the one that hits directly in the heart, killing without hesitation. "it is to stare at the abyss until it answers you."

and the blond doesn't back down (he never steps back), but he turns his body in such a way that he is facedown, looking at the korean. "how's the feeling?" the questions never end. "what happens when the abyss answers?"

internally, doyoung laughs. "you know, yuta." and he gets closer to his boyfriend. the space between their faces is so narrow that they almost touch, lips parted by mere inches. his thin fingers arrange some blond strands that fell on nakamoto's forehead. "it is the main reason why you're depressed."

ah, yes... yuta knows that well...

but sometimes, he prefers to ignore the facts, throw them out of the window and feel his boyfriend's beautiful lips against his. it's a matter of time before his back is against the white sheets again. his hands are attached to doyoung's nape, playing with the black threads and pulling them lightly. his brain is smart, seeking to repress the memories of the abyss with a mere kiss.

too bad the effect has a short term, and yuta can perfectly see himself on the edge of his personal cliff. one step forward and he would throw himself into the void that dominates him, that consumes his chest little by little. it's dangerous to be so close to the fall, the shadows already embracing his feet and slowly pulling him to the end. the japanese, however, stands firm and murmurs a single question: _what is left if nothing makes sense?_

silence. cold and harsh.

many imagine, expect the abyss to respond with a deep and dark voice. they almost yearn to hear any sound. but a few know that silence is also an answer, and inertia is a position.

in that case, it's the type which makes you listen to the hiss of the breeze near your ear, which makes you hear your heart beating eagerly and blood rushing through your veins, globules colliding against each other. it's the type that makes bones tremble, tinkle inside the body, and all hairs stand on end. it's the silence that doesn't say, but only confirms what was already on his mind.

 _nothing_.

the mouths part, but yuta keeps his boyfriend close by holding his chain. the reason for always encouraging the brunet to wear necklaces is this: to pull him closer. they share few heavy breaths until the japanese releases the other from his long-damaged claws.

and instead of continuing to explore the soft skin, kissing it and marking it a little more, doyoung simply hangs over him. he waits while enjoying the slender silhouette that only belongs to him. his eyes analyse every detail, every trace of the older man's face. yuta gasps and feels his breath being pulled from the lungs by the korean before eyes so sharp.

but doyoung gently strokes his boyfriend's face. it's so smooth that it doesn't seem to match the scene. his mind wanders, he travels far away when he realises the irony before his eyes. yuta is so beautiful that cabanel would have him as a muse, michelangelo would use him as inspiration for his sculptures; but only bosch would understand the torments of his mind and tzara would know how to put his emptiness on paper. the irony is evident as the day, bright as the stars outside the apartment: they are the culmination of degenerate art, the centrepieces of the exhibition, the most beautiful in the collection.

then he approaches, still holding yuta's face, and touches their foreheads. only a whisper escapes his lips: "we are the renegade children of duchamp, the forgotten heirs of dada."

yuta laughs sarcastically and just gets carried away by his boyfriend's words. "not even dadaism could describe our emptiness." he mumbles. "not even the most depraved art could represent our miserable lives." then he allows himself to sink and slowly drown.

the night cools as it becomes denser and the sky darkens even more. it's as if the blond allows his emptiness to expand beyond his body and embrace all the surroundings. the sparkle in the younger eyes disappears, as does the warmth of the larger silhouette. yuta just wants to cling to doyoung's body, curl up in his arms, and rest there, cry, drain. the reality is too harsh, and madness is not an option.

many say that it's necessary to feel sadness to know what happiness is, but yuta isn't sure he remembers what it feels like to be happy. sometimes melancholy dominates his mind so efficiently that it can hijack memories of joy. "three years." he whispers, trying to interrupt the torrent of thoughts that will take him to the abyss.

"a little more. five, i would say, before thirty. ” this is probably the most macabre craze between the two. they often try to guess how much life they have left — it doesn't matter if it would cease for natural reasons, others or direct influence from them. since the beginning of the relationship, the decades have turned into years and it won't be long before they turn into months, weeks and days. “do you know the bright side, yuta? you will always be young and beautiful.”

and yuta smiles. doyoung is right.

the cellphone vibrates on the nightstand. both pairs of eyes watch the electronic come to life, and the screen light up in bright colours. the notification does not matter, but time does.

2:54 am.

almost three in the morning and yuta forgot. _again_.

his slender hand travels to the furniture. the cellphone light gradually dies, but he can still see enough to reach the bottle with the pilules. another day, another pill. it has been that way since they met.

and it will be like this until they die.

**Author's Note:**

> [plot playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/65nknfDpDKjkD9ahHYGGcW?si=hsfcRtLBQH-bUJqHWEuorg)   
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